


The Misadventures of Katsuki Yuuri and the Brothers Plisetsky

by SnarkyBreeze



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: A Plant Wrote This, Adventure & Romance, Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe, Con Artists, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2019-09-25 08:20:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17117804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnarkyBreeze/pseuds/SnarkyBreeze
Summary: The brothers Plisetsky, orphaned at a young age, begin performing confidence tricks as young children; Yurio dreams up elaborate scenarios and his younger brother, Viktor, creates trust with the marks.Twenty-five years later, the brothers are the world’s most successful con men, determined to pull one final, perfect con: one where everyone involved gets exactly what they want.Their mark? Katsuki Yuuri—a rich, socially-isolated heir who is just itching for an adventure.Based on the movieThe Brothers Bloom.





	1. The Perfect Con

As far as con man stories go, I think I’ve heard them all.  Of grifters, ropers, faro-fixers, the tellers of beautiful and elaborate tales.  But if one bears a bookmark in the confidence man’s tome, it would be that of Katsuki Yuuri and the brothers Plisetsky.

 

At ten and thirteen, Viktor and Yuri, the younger and the old, had been through several foster families.  Thirty-eight, to be exact. Mischief moved them on in life, and moving kept them close. For Viktor had Yuri, and Yuri, Viktor.

 

It was more than most people had.

 

Another home, another Main Street.  Yuri looked around and summed up the burg thusly:

 

“Vitya, we’ve hit a one-hat town.”

 

One theater. One car wash.  One cafe. One park. One cat, which, through some mishap, had one leg.

 

“Sweet Jesus, look at that,” Yuri muttered, Viktor trotting along at his heels.

 

One public school, one tightly-knit group of local, well-off kids.  Their pocket change bought rocket pops.

 

The brothers? Pixie sticks.

 

The other kids were the “they,” all well-loved, rooted, happy as you please.

 

Always there in every town.

 

“The playground bourgeoisie,” Yuri chuckled as he watched them skipping around in circles, pushing one another on the swings.  They never joined in with the kids. Yuri kept his distance, watching the rhythm of the town like a hawk from a faraway bench. Viktor kept close to Yuri.

 

They wore their suits, the only clothes they had and the only thing Yuri would buy, as he insisted if they were going to live the thrilling, adventurous lives of con men, they had to dress the part.

 

Matching suits, matching hats.  Viktor had lost his tie some years ago, and refused to let Yuri replace it.  He wore his coat open and his shirt untucked. He was ten. He never strayed from his older brother’s side.

 

Except for one day.  One day, a group of boys were playing right next to the path along which Yuri and Viktor traipsed each day to study the locals.  They blew bubbles from long, whimsical wands like they were making magic out of thin air, swirly rainbow orbs that flipped the world and reflected it back to you.

 

And in the center of them was Paulie.  Paulie had golden hazel eyes and sandy hair and more freckles than Viktor had ever seen on anyone, and Viktor was in love with him.

 

Could he simply…?

 

“Talk to him!” Yuri gruffed, shoving his brother out into the clearing where the other boys were gathered.

 

Could he just drop his fears and go?

 

Leave his brother in the woods and join the children?

 

As he brushed the neon-green grass stains off his black slacks, he considered it, just for a moment.

 

But then Paulie turned his eyes like drops of honey in Viktor’s direction, and Viktor panicked, ran back to Yuri’s side.

 

No.  He couldn’t do it.

 

And so they boys continued their game of loitering in the periphery, looking for the perfect con.

 

In the root of Yuri’s psyche, something now began.

 

A seed of grand epiphany.  A hook. A tale. He’d look up, as the boys relaxed in their bunks at night, a deck of cards in his hands.  He’d flash the most knowing of smirks in Viktor’s direction, nothing but willpower and self esteem, as he shuffled the cards mindlessly, over and over again.

 

It helped him think.

 

After long nights of smirking and thinking, scheming and shuffling, Yuri finally pulled his brother aside, to their hideout in the woods just beyond the park, and announced that he had...

 

“A plan,” Yuri said, unfurling a crumpled-up piece of paper onto the tree stump that made up their makeshift table.  “Both for profit and to ease my poor brother’s heart.”

 

It was a simple con in 15 steps.

 

“And this,” Yuri said, chest puffed out and pressing a finger into the box at the top of a winding flow chart, “this is where we start.”

 

  1. _Viktor talks to boy_



 

And then, as if a curtain had been pulled back from the sky, some barrier within Viktor was broken.

 

“Hi,” Viktor said, an infallible smile pasted on overtop his nerves and excitement as he extended his hand out toward Paulie.  

 

To his amazement, Paulie smiled and shook it.

 

So Viktor performed his role in Yuri’s story to a T.  It was all an act, but being who he wasn’t, he could be exactly the kind of ten-year-old kid he wished he was.

 

  1. _Viktor earns kids’ trust._



 

He played and laughed and let himself have fun with the kids he’d never been allowed to join, not in any town, let alone this one.  He got to hang around Paulie and see how the sun turned those amber eyes into gold.

 

Yuri, meanwhile,  got started on the infrastructure of the entire plan.  He searched the woods until he found a little cave, just the right size and with a dirt floor he could loosen with the tread of his boot.  He bought supplies—a hose and a couple of picnic coolers—at the local hardware store, scouted the local church for his marks, and kept on feeding his younger brother exactly what to say.

 

“There’s a hermit in the local woods,” Viktor told Paulie and the boys one day as they played ball in the field.  “A one-eyed, steel-toothed vagabond.”

 

(“With blood red eyes?” He’d asked Yuri from his bunk as they worked out the story together.

 

“That’s good,” Yuri nodded as he paced alongside the bed.  “He stopped you coming home from school—“)

 

“—And told me of a cave,” Viktor said, his voice hushed with excitement as his friends slowly stopped their running and gathered around him to listen.

 

“What kind of cave?” asked Paulie, who was hanging, wide-eyed, on Viktor’s every word.

 

“A cave of wonder,” he answered.

 

A boy with round cheeks and a mess of red hair scoffed from the back of the group.

 

“Shut up, Dave,” Paulie said, with a roll of his eyes.

 

“At noon on every Sunday,” Viktor continued, “there appears a ball of light which flutters like a butterfly.”

 

“A will-o’-the-wisp?” Paulie asked, his eyes lighting up like setting suns.  Viktor preened at the attention.

 

“That’s right,” he said.  “It guides you—“

 

(“—if you can keep up,” Yuri added, waving his hands like a conductor as he paced—)

 

“—to where the treasures lay.”

 

“So where is this ‘cave of wonders’?” Dave asked incredulously.

 

“Yeah, where?” asked Paulie, completely enthralled.

 

(“Ha!  The hermit didn’t say,” Yuri exclaimed with a snap of his fingers, his yellow hair falling in unwashed strands in front of his eyes.  “You tell them he got this greedy, glinting look, the filthy red-eyed leech, and said he’d tell for—“)

 

“—30 bucks,” Viktor shrugged, looking defeated.

 

One of the boys screwed up his face, clearly concentrating, and then beamed.  “Well, that’s only 2 bucks each!” he said, jumping to his feet and pulling a handful of change out of his pocket.

 

The other kids, well-allowanced and always well-prepared, followed suit.

 

And so that Sunday, straight from church, Viktor led the children into the woods.

 

He was the only one that knew Yuri was already out there, dumping the water he’d collected in the picnic coolers out into the loose dirt on the cave’s floor.

 

The kids ran excitedly along the path, and then off the path, following in Viktor’s footsteps, until finally, they stopped.  Their hearts leapt. There it was.

 

“Just like the hermit said,” gasped Paulie, staring in awe at the little den that had formed in the roots of a giant, ancient tree.  He grasped at Viktor’s hand, squeezing it tight as they drew near.

 

And then, a light flickered from the dark of the cave.  A light that bobbed and flitted like a butterfly on the wind, mystical and otherworldly.

 

And just like that, they were running for towards it, towards the promise of treasures unseen.  They tore through the mud in their white church clothes, uncaring of the mess, driven by the amazement of something so magical and curious.  For just one moment, Viktor forgot himself and ran too fast. He’d catch the light and find the treasure…!

 

...but the moment passed as he caught sight of Yuri dodging out of sight, a lantern gleaming in his hands.  He stopped, felt the last of the magic fade, and remembered the next steps of the plan.

 

Paulie ran past him into the cave, turning to offer his hand, to run with Viktor after the will-o’-the-wisp.  

 

And Viktor knew he couldn’t follow.  He couldn’t join the other kids in ignorant wonder.  He had a part to play.

 

And just like that, it was over.  The children went back, their clothes and arms and faces stained brown, toward town.  They didn’t catch the will-o’-the-wisp, but they didn’t really care. They returned to the field and resumed their games, same as always.

 

Yuri and Viktor watched from their bench, same as always, suits and hats untouched by the mud.

 

“It seems to me that in the end, the perfect con is where each one involved gets just the thing they wanted,” Yuri said, fiddling with his stack of one-dollar-bills as if it was his usual deck of cards.

 

“Yeah, I guess so,” Viktor sighed as he watched Paulie run further and further away with his friends.

 

And so, our fledgling thieves were satisfied.

 

But the children’s parents were less so.

 

It was nothing new, this sort of offense that resulted in cheeks red from being smacked in retribution, write-ups to the child services agency that so charitably placed them in home after home, all of their winnings relinquished back to the children they’d tricked.

 

Packing their bags and moving to a new town.

 

A bitter ending? Maybe.  But there’s a silver lining.

 

The brothers Plisetsky had found their calling, as shown in step number six.

 

  1. _Cut % to O’Henry’s_



 

“Cut” meant to negotiate.  “Percent,” percentage deal.  O’Henry’s was the town’s one dry-clean shop, where they stopped on their way out of town to collect their portion of the profit Mr. O’Henry had made from all of the dirtied dress clothes.

 

It was way more than thirty dollars, even after they bought all the rocket pops and pixie sticks the one drug store had in stock.

 

“How’s it feel?” Yuri said, fanning the money in his hands as Viktor attempted to eat two rocket pops at a time, one in each hand.

 

Viktor thought it felt pretty good, all things considered.  There was a hiss and the whine of straining brakes as the bus stopped at the corner opposite them.

 

“Let ‘em melt,” Yuri grumbled, tossing his own rocket pop over his shoulder before dragging his suitcase towards where the approaching bus would soon stop.

 

Viktor followed suit, only slightly remorseful at the lost treat, and only slightly more so at the missed opportunities that would stay here long after he’d left.

 

With one last glance cast over his shoulder, Viktor hauled his bag over his shoulder and stepped up onto the bus.

 

In truth, young Viktor wouldn’t know for another twenty years just how he felt.

 

And so we’ll skip ahead in our story.


	2. Gentleman Thieves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viktor spit out the remains of the gelatin capsule that he’d bitten to spit up fake blood when Leroy pulled the trigger. “Tastes like tinfoil,” he muttered.
> 
> “So does real blood,” said Yuri. “Can I buy you a drink?”

Berlin, twenty -five years later

 

Smoke burned Viktor’s sinuses as he stood in the center of a vast, ornate, beautiful library.

 

A library which was on fire.

 

His suit was, as always, untouched.  Not a single silver hair out of place, only the slightest glimmer of sweat betraying his strain.

 

His mark stood, ruddy, drenched in sweat, and seething with rage, in between him and the exit, gun drawn.

 

“He gets the scarab, you get the money, and I get the girl,” Viktor said with a sneer.  “So in the end, everyone gets everything he wants.”

 

His ass was so hot he was worried the back of his jacket might be on fire.

 

Then again, Otabek was much more talented than that.

 

It was amazing how desensitized Viktor had grown to staring down the barrel of a gun, and to his brother’s look of horror (feigned but perfected; heart-wrenching and visceral) as their mark pulled the trigger.

 

It was amazing how desensitized Viktor had grown to watching blood spray from his own chest, warm and crimson, glistening in the flickering flames.

 

“Vitya!” Yuri screamed as Viktor stumbled to his knees.  “Leroy, what have you done? Oh, my God.”

 

Viktor stared unblinklingly at Leroy, sprawled out on his back on the ornate marble tiles as Yuri crouched over him, laying a hand on the side of his neck in the weakest pantomime of checking for a pulse.

 

“Oh God, he’s dead!” Yuri cried, his scream piercing the air as he wheeled around toward the mark.

 

Viktor let his head lull from side to side as Yuri shook his body.  He never blinked once, even though the smoke stung his eyes.

 

Leroy just gaped at what he’d done, eyes wild.

 

“He was the only one who knew where our money was buried, and you shot him!” Yuri yelled.  “Leroy, you dunce!”

 

The mark reeled, a mad grimace twisting his face.  “The man named Leroy that you met four months and one thousand years ago in a hotel bar in Jodhpur is dead,” he said, his voice quavering.  “If we see each other again, it’ll be as strangers. As for the money, let it rot.”

 

And then he fled, bolting down the stairs and out of the mansion, never to be seen again.

 

“He’s gone,” Yuri called, and Otabek appeared from around the corner, lighting a cigarette with his blowtorch.  His dark eyes showed no sign of excitement or distaste or anything, really. He just raised his eyebrows in Yuri’s direction, and Yuri grinned back.

 

“Wow!” He laughed, brushing some dust off of his pinstripe suit and fanning at his forehead with his hat.  “‘Wow’ is the word you’re looking for, ‘Wow!’”

 

Otabek rolled his eyes and skulked back out of the room. 

 

“You’re a genius, Yuri,” Viktor puffed, hoisting himself to his feet.

 

_ “We’re _ genius, Vitya,” Yuri corrected.  He rocked back on his heels and looked around the room, admiring their work.

 

Now in defense of that shit-eating grin on his older brother’s face, Viktor had to admit that what he’d just pulled off was pretty amazing.  He’d hinged the entire con on this question:

 

Would Jean-Jacques Leroy, spineless mark, would he actually pull that trigger?

 

Maybe.

 

But Yuri wanted better odds.  He’d positioned Viktor in the exact same spot where Leroy’s wife had stood and told him she was leaving.  He’d picked Viktor’s suit to match her outfit. He even phonetically matched his final words to hers:

 

“This is the end, Jean.  You’ve always been such a dunce.”

 

“So in the end, everyone gets everything he wants.”

 

Viktor spit out the remains of the gelatin capsule that he’d bitten to spit up fake blood when Leroy pulled the trigger.  “Tastes like tinfoil,” he muttered.

 

“So does real blood,” said Yuri.  “Can I buy you a drink?”

 

They sauntered down and out of the library, out into the drive outside the mansion, where Otabek had pulled the car around and was already waiting.

 

“Four months and a thousand years ago,” Yuri laughed, waltzing around to the passenger’s seat, leaving Viktor to get in the back.  

 

“He was quoting Kipling,” Viktor said. “He stole that from Kipling.”

 

Yuri snorted. “No, he didn’t.”

 

“So where’s this wrap party?” Viktor asked.

 

“Otabek knows,” Yuri said with a smirk, and their doors were barely closed before the Kazakh floored it out and down the drive, away from the burning building.

 

“Make way, make room for the brothers Plisetsky!” someone called as they walked into the boarded-up little pub on the edge of town.  The crowd inside cheered; Viktor didn’t even think he knew any of these people. Yuri didn’t need to buy him a drink because neither of them needed to buy a single drink all night; the second one emptied another was thrust into their hands.

 

“All right, here we go,” Yuri said, pulling a small group of partygoers in close and shuffling his deck of cards.  “Gather around, friends and accomplices.” He turned to the man next to him. “Think of a card. Got it?” He cut the deck, producing a card at random.  “Is that it?”

 

“No,” the guy said, disappointed.

 

Yuri laughed.  “If I do it enough, someday it’s gonna work on someone.  And then it’ll be the best damn card trick in the world.”  He flicked a finger against the deck, sending the card flying above his head before catching it in two fingers and sliding it back in place.

 

“Is it true that you never work with the same crew twice?” The guy asked.  “You know, except for the…” He indicated toward Otabek, who was blatantly ignoring the man who was drunkenly trying to talk to him.  They watched as he lit a cigarette, took a drag, handed it to the man, and walked away.

 

“Otabek?”  Yuri asked.  “He’s our fifth Beatle.  He knows the ins and outs.”

 

The man’s cigarette exploded in his face not a moment later.

 

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard him speak more than three words,” Yuri laughed.  

 

“Campari,” Otabek muttered to the bartender.

 

“So he’s with you and Viktor to the end?” The guy asked.

 

“Till the wind changes,” Yuri said.  He shot a finger gun in Otabek’s direction.  Otabek mimed his death with a little wink, slinking over to pull Yuri out onto the dance floor.

 

“Hey, where’s Viktor?” the guy called after them.

 

Viktor was upstairs playing solitaire.  As stereotypically brooding and reclusive as he could be.

 

He twirled the queen of hearts between his thumb and ring finger, not even really focused on the game he was playing.

 

A woman with dark curls peeked in from the hall.  “There you are,” she said, her voice playful and coy as she let herself into Viktor’s space.  “You hiding?”

 

“Yep,” Viktor said, not looking up from his game.

 

“I’ve been learning,” she said, coming over to sit on the desk in front of him.  “Yuri likes to talk about you.”

 

“He tell you the cave story?” Viktor asked drily.

 

“Is it true?” she asked, leaning in closer.  She batted her eyes shamelessly at him as he downed his glass of bourbon.

 

“What else did he tell you?” Viktor asked.

 

She laughed, leaning down on her elbows to meet his lowered gaze.  “You two kicked around until your early teens, winding up in the grotty outskirts of St. Petersburg, where you learned the big con from an old-school grifter named Yakov Feltsman.  Is that true?”

 

“Yep,” Viktor said, fiddling with his glass.  

 

“And he was your mentor,” she continued.  “But I get the sense it ended badly.”

 

“Yuri took his eye out with an antique rapier,” Viktor deadpanned, as matter-of-factly as if Yuri had cooked the man dinner.  

 

“Why did he do that?” the woman asked.  Viktor could tell at this point that she wasn’t remotely interested in the story, the way she was rubbing his shoulder as she talked, bent over in such a way as to give him a generous view down the front of her dress.

 

Viktor kept his eyes on his cards.  “The brothers Plisetsky lit out on their own to make their fortune as gentleman thieves,” he responded, absently searching the bottom of his glass for any drops of bourbon he may have left behind.  “Sounds romantic.”

 

“It does,” the woman whispered, hoisting herself up onto the table, brushing the playing cards aside and leaning in for a kiss.  Viktor had kissed her here like this before, but tonight he could not be bothered. Something about this lifestyle was not right.  He was not the kind of man he wanted to be. He turned his head away from her as she drew near.

 

“You don’t understand what my brother does,” Viktor said, pushing the woman away from him.  “He writes his cons the way dead Russians write novels, with thematic arcs and embedded symbolism and shit.  And he wrote me as the vulnerable anti-hero. And that’s why you think you wanna kiss me.” He stood up, slamming his glass down on the desk.  “It’s a con.”

 

He left her to sulk on the desk and rushed downstairs.  Yuri was eating wings with Otabek in a booth near the dance floor.

 

“I’m going nuts,” Viktor mouthed in their direction, miming a gun against his head.  He made for the stairs outside, never breaking stride, desperate for some fresh air. This entire party was stifling.  

 

It was already morning.  The sun beat down relentlessly against his back, warmer than it should have been this early in the day.

 

The lot behind the bar was barren and covered with graffiti.  Viktor stood and stared at the concrete walls, every inch covered with brightly-colored spray paint.

 

He knew what he wanted to do.  But it wasn’t going to be easy.  His hangover was definitely going to make this  _ less _ easy.

 

A few minutes later, the door swung open and Yuri stepped out into the alley.

 

“Aw, we missed the sunrise,” he lamented, taking off his hat and his jacket.  “That would have been nice.” He sauntered over, taking his place on the bench Viktor was perched on, and held out his deck of cards.

 

Viktor rolled his eyes.  If he had a dime for every time he had to pick a fucking card, he’d be a very wealthy man.

 

He still did it, though, out of principle.  Yuri was his big brother, after all.

 

The deck was cut, the card was wrong.  

 

“Nope,” Viktor groaned.

 

“Well, at least you’re honest,” Yuri said with an impressed nod.  “All right, let’s do this. Let’s just get it done. So, first you say, ‘I’m quitting, Yuri.  I’m out.’ Then I say—”

 

“Do we have to go through this again?” Viktor snapped.  

 

“Right,” Yuri said.  “And then you make a show of putting on your jacket, and you say, ‘No, I mean it this time, Yuri.  This time, I’m really out.’”

 

Viktor stared his brother down, his stomach churning.  He had never been more burnt out than at that moment. “And then you say, ‘Let’s have a drink, and in the morning, Vitya, you’ll have come to your senses.’”

 

Yuri chuckled, pocketing the flask he’d just been about to offer.  “It’s a major design flaw in fake blood, by the way,” he started, as though they’d just been talking about this two minutes ago, instead of ten hours ago.

 

“‘—and you’ll be moving on.‘“ Viktor continued as though Yuri weren’t trying to reel him back in.

 

“Real blood turns brown after half an hour.”

 

Viktor was furious.  “Listen, if you—“

 

“Vitya, this Scotch costs more than your suit,” Yuri said, taking out the flask again.  

 

“Listen to me.”

 

“The flask stopped a bullet in Normandy—“

 

“Listen!” Viktor shouted, grabbing the flask from Yuri’s hands and throwing it across the lot.  “I hate you. Okay?” 

 

Yuri said nothing.  Viktor struggled to find his words, opening and closing his mouth wordlessly, his hands flailing as he fought back tears.

 

“Oh, God, I can’t do this anymore,” Viktor cried, bringing his hands to his face to rub at his throbbing temples.  “I can’t wake up next to another person who thinks they know me. I’m thirty-five years old. I—I’m useless. I’ve only ever lived life through these roles that aren’t me, that are written for me by you.”

 

Yuri sighed, clapping a hand down on Viktor’s shoulder.  “Tell me what you want,” he said.

 

“Why?” Viktor asked, pulling away.  “So you can write me a role in a story where I get it?” He laughed, although entirely humorlessly.  “You’re not listening to me. I want… a  _ real _ thing.  I want a… I just… I want… I… want…”

 

Yuri nodded, as though Viktor were saying anything comprehensible.  “You want an unwritten life,” he decoded.

 

“I want an unwritten life,” Viktor confirmed.  

 

And Yuri just stared at him, the look on his face inscrutable, and winked.

 

“Jesus Christ,” Viktor groaned, jumping to his feet.  “I’m going away. Somewhere where you and Otabek won’t even be able to track me down, so don’t try it, ok?”  He turned on his heel and marched away. He didn’t even know where “away” was. “No more stories,” he called behind him.  “I love you. Goodbye.”

 

And he left Yuri to sit and chew on that, just him and his stupid deck of cards.


	3. The Comeback

Montenegro, 3 months later

 

Viktor awoke to his curtains being ripped open, causing sunlight to pour into his room.  He bolted upright and nearly choked on the butt end of a cigar that he must have still had in his mouth when he collapsed into his hammock late last night.

 

In comparison to Viktor’s modest one-room bungalow, Yuri looked dazzling.  His suit was pearl-white and spotless, not a single crease sullying his sillhouette.  Backlit by the morning sun, he smiled down at Viktor as though he was saving his younger brother from a tribulation that only his absence could have caused.

 

Viktor’s stomach turned to lead.

 

They sat down by the dock half an hour later, breakfast and coffee spread out on the little wooden table between them.

 

“How’d you find me?” Viktor asked.

 

“Otabek,” Yuri replied, a grin painted across his face as he stuffed it full of ham.

 

“How’d  _ he _ find me?” Viktor asked.

 

Yuri just cocked his head to the side, as though Viktor should know the answer to that question.

 

Viktor didn’t know much about Otabek.

 

“So how you been?” Yuri asked.

 

“Great,” Viktor mumbled, pouring too much sugar into his coffee.

 

“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking the past three months,” Yuri said, shaking salt over his eggs, “and I’ve come to the conclusion that you don’t want out.  You think you do, but you don’t.”

 

Viktor rolled his eyes so hard he thought he might fall backwards out of his chair.

 

“Hey come here,” Yuri said, standing up suddenly and abandoning his plate.  “I want to show you something.”

 

“I quit, Yuri,” Viktor whined.  

 

Yuri just tipped his hat and walked away with all the confidence of a man who knew his brother would follow.

 

Viktor followed.

 

“Where are we going?” He asked, trotting behind Yuri’s long strides.

 

“New Jersey,” Yuri called behind him.

 

Viktor sighed.  “Let me grab my coat.”


	4. Roping the Mark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was actually a knack to this. As far as fast-tracking your way into your mark’s sympathies, there was nothing quite as effective as having your first conversation be from a hospital bed they put you in.

New Jersey \- Roping the Mark

 

“So, where are we?” Viktor asked as he and Yuri trudged up a long expanse of bricked driveway.  

 

Near the top of the hill, Yuri pulled aside the lowest branches of one of the trees to reveal a stately and absolutely massive mansion, a sprawl of corridors and balconies and turrets that was bigger than Viktor could comprehend.

 

“The largest private residence on the Eastern Seaboard,” Yuri grinned.  “The home of our final mark. Daddy owned a chain of high-end hotels, built a Xanadu to match, and then died hunting quail.”  He peered up at the mansion. Otabek peered up at the branch that was blocking their view. “Mom followed into the hereafter two years ago after ten years of fighting a disease that I can’t even pronounce—Thank you,“ he added to Otabek, who was hacking at the offending branch with a knife produced from who-knows-where in his leather coat.  “—leaving our sucker all alone on this ludicrous estate with an insane amount of very liquid assets.”

 

In the distance, they heard the roar of a car engine, and as the sound grew closer they saw a bright-yellow sports car approaching,

 

“Duck,” Yuri muttered, and the three crouched down in the brush that grew along the side of the road.

 

The car zoomed past at dangerously high speeds, not slowing at all despite the fact that it was nearing the estate.

 

“What the hell?” Yuri asked, and the three men crept up to the edge of the drive to get a better look.

 

Without any hint of braking, the sports car slammed into the fountain that stood at the front of the mansion, bits of stone crumbling down onto the windshield.

 

And as though nothing had even happened, the door swung open and out stepped the car’s driver, comically unfazed.

 

And breathtakingly beautiful.

 

He wore a heavy black cape and gloves despite the fact that it was summer, and his face was shaded by a black sun hat.  His eyes were hidden behind blue-framed glasses as he inspected the damage his car had endured. He looked disappointed, but not surprised as he removed his hat to reveal a mess of soft black hair.

 

Viktor fumed.

 

“Get the car,” he muttered.  “I’m out.”

 

Twenty minutes later, Otabek pulled up in a wine-colored classic rental.

 

“Vitya,” Yuri protested, holding his ground at the end of the drive.

 

“No.  I thought I was into it, I was wrong.  I see what you’re trying to do here. This isn’t some… _Guy_ thing.  Or thing.  It’s… Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter what it is.  So what are we—"  He stopped, absent-mindedly admiring the detailed work of the car's cloth top.  "Is this a ‘78 Caddy?” he asked suddenly, turning to Otabek.  The Kazakh gave him an impressed nod. “A controversial choice,” Viktor replied.  “So no, is what I’m saying, all right? I’m quits, anyway. I’ll be in Montenegro, drinking.” He turned to open the door of the DeVille.  Otabek stepped in his way.

 

“Katsuki Yuuri.  Thirty-three,” Yuri recited.  “Lived at home his whole life.”  He handed Viktor a pair of binoculars and gestured up toward the mansion.

 

Viktor looked up and saw the dark-haired man pulling a harp out into the courtyard, apparently ready to start playing.  

 

“An eccentric shut-in rich boy?” Viktor laughed.  “You’re not helping your case.”

 

“He’s bored,” Yuri urged.  “He’s a little seed in the snow.  We’re going to put him on a grand adventure. Bring him to life.  He needs sprouting.”

 

The thrumming of an approaching motor caught their attention again and they looked to see a tow truck bringing a new bright-yellow sports car up the drive.

 

Viktor sighed.  “So this is the big plan, huh?” he said.  “Lure me back in with some beautiful, intriguing, elusive man?”  He turned the binoculars back toward the house again. Katsuki was, in fact, playing the harp now, and the soft sound of the plucked strings barely drifted down to them on the wind.  It was a lovely image—bittersweet; beautiful, yet with a loneliness that pervaded every movement. “Seriously, Yuri. Amateur night.” He did not tear his gaze away. “I’m not saying yes, but what’s the con?” He asked.

 

“It’s actually pretty simple, Yuri replied, hovering over his shoulder to get a good look at the mark.  “We’re brothers, antiquities dealers. We’re traveling the world by steam ship…”

 

He continued his plan, guiding Viktor back to the car with a hand on his shoulder.  Yuri then proceeded to unfold every detail, every little device that would make the “One Last Con” perfect.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“—Bang!” Yuri nearly shouted in a nearby bar forty minutes later.  “Give him the old cackle-bladder and the brush-off.”

 

Viktor looked up silently from the plans Yuri had placed in front of him.  A meticulously-constructed packet of papers, instructions, contacts, and maps.

 

“And that’s how it ends in Mexico,” Yuri grins, leaning back in his chair.  “A burst of violence, then a moment of truth on the beach.” He bit his lip, looking expectantly at his younger brother.  “What do you think?”

 

Viktor thought for a moment.  “You’ve got something up your sleeve,” he concluded.  “This is about me, right?  Somehow.”

 

Yuri shook his head.

 

“Now this might not be something you know, but they’ve all been about you,” he said, his voice bordering on incredulous.  “And maybe that’s why they’ve none been perfect, because I’ve never been able to give you what you really wanted.”

 

“This isn’t going to give me what I want,” Viktor laughed.  

 

And Yuri only stared, that half-expectant, half-resigned stare he reserved only for Viktor.  He flicked his fingers and produced an ace of spades.

 

Viktor shook his head.  He squeezed his eyes shut, gathering himself for a moment.  “This will be the last one,” he warned. “And then you’ll let me go.”

 

“I’ll never ask you to do another con again,” Yuri promised.  

 

Otabek returned from whatever business he got up to when he left the brothers alone, hovering at Yuri’s side with a questioning glance.

 

“Make it a Schwinn,” Yuri ordered.  Otabek gave him a thumbs-up, the corner of his mouth quirked up in a half-smile at the obscure little joke, and then he disappeared once more.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The next day, the trio set up on the hill.  

 

“There are much less painful ways to cut into a mark, you know,” Viktor griped as he affixed a pair of safety goggles over his eyes.

 

Otabek stuck his lip out and rubbed at his eyes, a little mock cry that was followed by laughter.

 

He and Yuri had already set up their lookout just out of sight of the target zone—a cozy arrangement of beach chairs and umbrellas from which they could study their mark in comfort.

 

Otabek had brought a six-pack, most of which was waiting on the table between the seats.  Two of them, however, were already half-finished in the hands of their owners, who looked on with great amusement as Viktor adjusted himself on his bike.

 

“Score to beat is 7.9,” Yuri called.  “Keep your head in the game. The Kazakh judge is very tough.”

 

Viktor shifted uncomfortably, trying to situate himself in a position that wouldn't sterilize him for life.  “Did you have to get a banana seat?” He said.

 

He wasn’t sure which reaction irked him more—Yuri’s wicked grin or Otabek’s look of innocent confusion.

 

“Don’t give me that blank look, you know what a goddamn banana seat is.”

 

Just then, Yuri, binoculars in one hand and beer in the other, perked up.  “Oh!” he called, putting down his drink to grab at a whistle hanging around his neck.  

 

The whistle’s cry grated through Viktor as Yuri blew it repeatedly, signaling with his free hand to go, go, go!

 

He’d had some pretty embarrassing cut-ins, even some dangerous ones, but Viktor was pretty sure as he pushed off and started his descent down the steep and grassy hill that this might have topped both categories.

 

“Shit,” he mumbled, trying to keep steady on the uneven terrain.  Yuri would probably kill him if he ate turf before he even made it down to the road.

 

Yuri and Otabek clinked bottles from their beach chairs as they watched him plummet down, down, down, towards an oncoming yellow sports car.

 

The bike swerved and bobbed a couple of times, but Viktor was able to right it enough.  The car’s driver caught sight of him then, and slammed on the brakes, which was exactly what he’d planned for.

 

Because then, with a hideous crash, Viktor barreled head-on into the passenger’s side of the vehicle and was sent flying.

 

As he rolled over the windshield, he could see the look of horror in his mark’s face as Katsuki Yuuri screamed from the driver’s seat.

 

There was actually a knack to this.  As far as fast-tracking your way into your mark’s sympathies, there was nothing quite as effective as having your first conversation be from a hospital bed they put you in.

 

The sports car screeched to a halt not to far ahead of Viktor as he sprawled out, flat on his back but basically uninjured.

 

From their perch at the top of the hill, Otabek and Yuri held up their score cards; 5.6 and 8.7 respectively.

 

“What? Oh come on,” Viktor mumbled as he craned his neck to see what Katsuki Yuuri would do next.

 

Neither of the brothers, nor Otabek, could have expected that he would continue to drive.  Well, not drive so much as spurt forward in little, roaring bursts, brakes still on, grinding the tires against the pavement.

 

None of them could have expected that Katsuki Yuuri would have a panic attack behind the wheel and crash his car into the nearby hillside.

  
  


And so it was Viktor who sat in one of those uncomfortable chairs in the hospital’s emergency room, while his mark lay, stabilizing, in the bed.

 

Yuri and Otabek were set up comfortably in the waiting room, each with a stethoscope— _for some reason_ —around his neck.  As Viktor passed by them to grab a coffee from the vending machine, intentionally keeping his gaze ahead and his expression stony, Yuri jumped to his feet to join him.

 

“I actually think this is kind of a great thing,” Yuri said, “and I’ll tell you why.”

 

Viktor was already over whatever weird justification his brother had for triggering a panic attack in an innocent mark.

 

“Dostoevsky was an epileptic—“

 

“That’s completely different,” Viktor protested.

 

“—and his seizures were preceded by an enlightened euphoria—“

 

_“Yuri.”_

 

“—a sort of opening of his spiritual eye.  I think the fact that he saw your face the instant before a panic attack is a pretty goddamn good foot to start out on, right?”

 

Viktor turned away from his brother and headed back toward the room where Katsuki lay, alone and vulnerable, and victim to something that had seemed so harmless at the time which inadvertently had sent his body into shut-down mode.

 

“You’re despicable,” he shot back at Yuri as he retreated.

 

“Yeah, but I’m your brother who loves you!” Yuri called back as Otabek burped into his stethoscope.

 

Viktor didn’t know how long he waited, but in his determination to be there when Katsuki woke up, he eventually drifted off to sleep in his chair, coffee balanced precariously on the seat next to him.

 

It wasn’t some heroic gesture, he told himself.  He didn’t feel personally responsible. The next step was to figure out a way to insinuate himself into the mark’s personal life.  That was all.

 

He was awoken by someone shaking his shoulder, and opened his eyes to find Katsuki standing in front of him, still dressed in a hospital gown, looking tired and confused.

 

His eyes were big and deep, velvety-brown even in the weird, green fluorescent light of the ER.

 

“I think they took my car,” Katsuki mumbled.  “Could you drive me home?”

 

“Yeah,” Viktor said, hoisting himself back up from his slumped-over slumber.  “Yeah.”

 

“Ok, I’m gonna…” Katsuki started, but his voice trailed off, and he stalked off toward the bathroom.

 

The back of his gown was still hanging open.

 

Not long after, Viktor had Katsuki in the passenger’s side of the Caddy, where the sunlight danced off his dark hair and made it sparkle.  Katsuki appeared to be watching the New Jersey mountains whiz by as they drove back to the sprawling estate, but Viktor soon realized the mark was watching him through the rear-view mirror.

 

For some reason, it didn’t feel weird at all.  If anything, it was quite nice, this quiet together.  And so, for the longest time, Viktor didn’t say anything.  He just basked in this strange, pleasant silence and drove on.


	5. A Lie That Tells The Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s a lie that tells the truth,” Viktor said, aware that this was the closest they’d been yet, their shoulders almost touching, 
> 
> “I don’t know about truths,” Yuuri said, his body leaning every so slightly and unconsciously in Viktor’s direction, making him burn, making him nervous like he hadn’t been in years. “A photograph is a secret about a secret. The more it tells you, the less you know.”

Step three: Find a connection with your mark through conversation.  Get invited in for coffee. Get them to tell you their whole tale. Set your hook.

 

“Well, we didn’t really have anyone except each other growing up,” Viktor said, a cup of bitter, yet pleasantly aromatic red tea in his hand.  “Our father was in the antique business. He had a shop in Charleston.”

 

Yuuri sat, cozy and casual in a black turtleneck and a sweater three sizes bigger than he could have worn, and listened witha dreamy expression painted across his face.

 

“We realized one day,” Viktor continued, “we saw the dealers who were finding and selling us the antiques coming from exotic countries around the world, and… the air would, like… before a rain, you know, the ions would line up and you could just smell midnight trains to Paris and Calcutta bazaars, and, uh… it could…”

 

He looked up to realize he may have misinterpreted “dreamy” from “bored.”  Yuuri was slumped over the table, head resting in between his arms and fingers playing through those sparkling strands of black hair.

 

Viktor may have panicked just a little bit.  “Excuse me, I’m sorry, uh… are you okay?” He asked with a little apprehension.

 

Yuuri jumped a little in surprise as he looked up.  “Yeah,” he said, wide-eyed. “Sorry. I’m really bad at talking to people.”

 

“That’s okay, uh…” Viktor started, but he wasn’t sure where to go from there.  “You want me to go?”

 

“No, no!” Yuuri protested.  “I really want to talk to you.”

 

“Really wanting to talk” turned out to be a lot of silence on Yuuri’s part as Viktor worked to find some vein of common interest he could tap to make a connection.  They moved from room to expansive room in the giant house, each magnificent in its own right, stuffed with original pieces of art and ornate sculptures, fresh flowers that he wondered if Yuuri didn’t tend himself, delicate throws and pillows on each seat.

 

“So,” Viktor began in one such room.  “What… what kind of stuff do you do?”

 

“Nothing,” Yuuri shrugged, his eyes down in his lap in front of him.  “Maybe you should go.”

 

“All right,” Viktor said, a little disappointed.  I’ll—I’ll just finish my—“ _tea_ , he’d meant to say, but Yuuri interrupted him again, as abrupt and disjointed as everything the young man had said so far.

 

“I collect hobbies,” he admitted.  “I see someone doing something I like, and I get books, and I learn how to do it.”

 

Viktor smiled.  He wasn’t just relieved to be making progress, but it was actually quite nice to hear Yuuri finally say something that wasn’t standoffish or flat.  The Japanese man seemed to at least perk up a little as he opened up.

 

“Anything interesting?” Viktor asked, studying Yuuri as he wrung his hands in his lap.

 

“Not really,” Yuuri said, his tone dismissive once more.

 

“Not really,” it turned out, was a bit misleading.  Viktor learned over the course of the next hour that Yuuri was an excellent pianist, better than many Viktor had heard on stage.  He was just as skilled at accordion, violin, classical guitar, banjo, martial arts, skateboarding, ping pong, juggling, and paper folding.

 

But most intriguing of all, he was a magnificent dancer like none Viktor had ever seen before.  He moved like his body was made of music, no matter what music he moved to. He showed Viktor examples of ballet, jazz, pole dancing, even figure skating, because somewhere in the vast sprawl of this enormous house, Yuuri had a skating rink all his own, and Viktor watched, shivering slightly against the cold, as Yuuri turned and spun and glided along to a beautiful piece of piano music.

 

Viktor never could have prepared himself for Katsuki Yuuri.

 

“So… you just learn this stuff here by yourself?” He asked as they headed back up yet another staircase from the ice rink, Yuuri panting slightly but barely breaking a sweat as they went.

 

Yuuri nodded.  “Kind of sad?” He asked.

 

“No,” Viktor replied, and for the first time that day, he received a smile from his mark, and it warmed him like nothing he’d ever felt before.  He couldn’t help but smile in return.

 

“So how do you plan to use all these skills?’ Viktor asked as they returned to one sitting room, where Yuuri sat at a desk covered in intricate line drawings of cityscapes and architecture.  

 

“I don’t know,” Yuuri said, gathering up the papers and tapping them lightly into a neat little stack.  “I’m not a planner. I just do stuff.” And then, suddenly, as if he’d forgotten something important. “Like, look at this watermelon,” he said, lifting a plate up from the floor on which half a watermelon was arranged, decorated with other fruit all around the outside.  He set it down on the desk in front of him. “It’s a pinhole camera.” He crouched down so he was on eye-level with the device, and grinned up at Viktor. “You can make a pinhole camera out of anything hollow and dark.

 

Viktor crouched down next to him to study the thing.  It was sliced on a diagonal so that the top came off like a lid, and the aperture was fashioned out of a piece of black plastic with a tiny hole drilled in the middle.

 

“It’s gotta warp the image though, right?” He asked, looking at the camera, so round and organic.

 

“Yeah,” Yuuri replied, a satisfied little smile curling his lips slightly.  “Yeah, it does. I mean, that’s what’s good about it, really,” he said. “You could point this at the most menial, everyday little thing, like fabric, or your, um…” he looked up at Viktor for a moment, their eyes meeting only briefly, and a bit of blush sprung to his cheeks.  “...or your face, anything really. And depending on how the pinhole eats the light, it’s gonna be warped and peculiar and imperfect and odd,” he said, jumping up suddenly to grab a few prints off the cork board behind the desk, “and it’s not going to be reproduction, it’s storytelling.”

 

He held out a photo of a squeezed-out tube of toothpaste for Viktor to inspect.

 

“It’s a lie that tells the truth,” Viktor said, aware that this was the closest they’d been yet, their shoulders almost touching,

 

“I don’t know about truths,” Yuuri said, his body leaning every so slightly and unconsciously in Viktor’s direction, making him burn, making him nervous like he hadn’t been in years.  “A photograph is a secret about a secret. The more it tells you, the less you know.”

 

Viktor smiled.  “What’s changed between now and fifty minutes ago?” He asked.  “‘Cause this is sort of like a conversation.”

 

And then their eyes met in earnest this time, Yuuri looking up at him in amazement and excitement.  Viktor could feel himself breaking into an uncontrollable grin, one he didn’t even need to fabricate for the sake of the con, one he felt all the way down to his core.  A similar smile bloomed in Yuuri’s face.  His eyes, which for some reason reminded Viktor of rocket pops and caves of wonder, sparkled as he let out a little, unconscious laugh.

 

“Well shit,” Yuuri said, the blush returning to his cheeks.

 

And from that moment on, Viktor was in.  He and Yuuri wandered around the grand estate, and he listened to Yuuri divulge the strange, unbelievable secrets of all his little secrets.  It was fascinating and sickening all at the same time, because at the end of the day, Viktor knew this was a con, and this was exactly why he’d wanted out in the first place.

 

As the sun began to set behind the mountains of New Jersey, they wandered down together to the wine-colored Cadillac waiting at the top of the drive.

 

A tow-truck was unloading yet another bright-yellow sportscar right next to it.

 

“It’s late,” Viktor said a little hesitantly.  He breathed deep, knowing the next moment would make or break everything—the con, his pride, and his chances with this beautiful, quirky, interesting man.  “So…”

 

“So…” Yuuri echoed, looking up at him with those toffee eyes once more.  Viktor took his hand, intending to shake it, but they never really did that.  Instead, they just stood there, Viktor brushing his thumb gently over the back of Yuuri’s hand.  It was warm, and smooth, and soft, and everything Viktor wanted.

 

“I meet a lot of people in my job I have to professionally act interested in,” he said, all part of the script, but so easy to say because of how sincerely he felt it.  “It’s a good feeling to be genuinely interested in someone.”

 

Yuuri smiled a breathless little smile, but it faded slightly as he asked, “Are you leaving?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Oh,” Yuuri said, his face dropping.  “Coming back?”

 

“Well, next time I’m in town,” Viktor said apprehensively, venturing to tuck his thumb into the cuff of Yuuri’s sweater, a gesture so minute and yet intimate it actually made his heart race a bit.  “We’re taking a steamer at noon tomorrow off the docks, to the continent for a few months.” He watched the disappointment continue to spread across Yuuri’s face. “Paris and Greece, I think,” he continued, just rambling at this point.  “I’ve gotta get a hat… Well, thanks for the pinhole camera demonstration and the good conversation..”

 

And Yuuri’s disappointment couldn’t stand up to that, he broke into a laugh then, nodding.

 

“Goodbye, Yuuri,” Viktor said, and that was the hardest part, because the next step didn’t rely on anything he could do.  Whether or not he saw Yuuri again after this was completely out of his hands.

 

“Goodbye, Viktor,” Yuuri said.

 

And as Viktor drove away back down the winding hill, he hoped to God he’d done enough to get Yuuri to take the bait.  Money be damned, he just wanted to see Katsuki Yuuri again.


	6. Setting the Bait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was a story about a boy who could find infinite beauty in anything. Any little thing.

The air was cool and thick with fog as Viktor jogged along the docks toward the steamship where Yuri and Otabek waited.  He was losing his mind, he was sure of it, because today was the day they were supposed to leave and there was still no sign of Yuuri.

 

“He’s not coming,” Viktor called up to his brother, doing nothing to hide the panic in his voice. “I need another day with him.”

 

Yuri looked annoyed, if not a little confused.  He leaned out just a little too far over the boat’s railing.  “You’ll have two weeks with him on the boat.”

 

Otabek did not look perturbed in the slightest.  He puffed on a cigarette as he laved away slices of wood from some little trinket he was whittling.

 

“I need another day to get him  _ on _ the boat,” Viktor pleaded.  “He’s not hooked. I’ve had one session, and we mostly talked watermelons and the optics of lensless photography.”

 

Viktor should have seen this coming.  

 

“It’s not the talking that hooked him,” Yuri assured him with a confident little wink.

 

Viktor frowned, dancing impatiently on the spot.  “I think you’re wro—” he started to say, but just the roar of an engine, accompanied by the frantic beeping of a car horn and the unmistakable odor of a burnt-out clutch, stopped him mid-sentence.

 

As he ran back toward the sound, he found where Yuuri was parked—well, not so much parked as wedged in between two barriers at the end of the pier—and subsequently discovered Yuuri pulling a large leather trunk out of the passenger’s side.

 

He could barely contain himself.  Excitement, relief, joy, they all swelled in his chest in a way that he wished he could show outwardly.

 

But he had a part to play, a part Yuri had written specifically for him, and for now, he couldn’t let his feelings out.

 

“What are you doing here?” Viktor asked, doing his best to look pleasantly puzzled as he approached the sportscar.

 

“Uh…” Yuuri mumbled, searching his pockets for something and keeping his eyes down.  “Here.” He held out a bundle of bills held together with a rubber band. “I wanna give you this money for the bike and for the whole thing,” he said nervously.

 

“That’s all right,” Viktor said, dismissing the offering with a wave of his hand.  “It’s not necessary, really.”

 

“Oh.”

 

The steamer’s foghorn blared in the distance, signaling its imminent departure.

 

“So, um… where’s this boat going?” Yuuri asked, and he finally looked up and met Viktor’s gaze, his eyes alight with the promise of adventure.

 

He was hooked.

 

And so, shortly thereafter, the brothers Plisetsky, and Otabek, and their new guest set off on the S.S. Fidele, a leisurely sort of ship meant to chart rich folks to and from their overseas vacations in style and luxury.

 

Once Viktor got Yuuri and his luggage situated down below, he brought him up to the deck to do one thing he really wished he could skip.

 

Yuri and Otabek were playing shuffleboard with a couple of old folks.

 

“Yuuri, this is my brother Yuri,” Viktor said, waving his brother over and away from the game.

 

“Hey, that’s too similar to my name,” the Japanese man said, looking mildly concerned.  But then, he perked up as a solution popped into his head. “Let’s call you Yurio!” he said with a genuinely adorable smile, one that made even Yuri blush.

 

Yuri looked for a moment like he might blow his stack. His smile was holding back something animous underneath, something that was liable to burst through his skull if he didn’t deal with it soon.  He shot a pleading look over at Viktor.

 

“Sounds good to me,” Viktor smirked, his hands in his pockets.  “Yuuri, this is my brother  _ Yurio _ ,” he corrected.  Otabek snorted.

 

“Glad to make your acquaintance,” Yuri said, extending his hand.  He was still practically shaking, and Viktor took a lot of pleasure in knowing that this was one thing his brother simply couldn’t control.  He had to stay on his mark’s good side, at least for now, even if the nickname made him furious. “Viktor’s told me so much about you. You’re the, uh, the epileptic photographer, right?”

 

“Sort of,” Yuuri said, shooting a confused look back at Viktor, who could only endeavor to look as apologetic as possible on his brother’s behalf.

 

“And this is my personal assistant and personal masseur,” Yurio continued, wheeling around to swing his cue down at Otabek, who blocked him with his own, “Mr. Otabek Altin, hero of Kazakhstan.”  

 

Otabek extended three fingers in what Viktor assumed must have been a wave before twisting his cue to throw Yurio aside and take his turn at the board.

 

“So what are you plans in Greece?” Yurio asked.

 

“Oh, I don’t plan,” Yuuri smiled.

 

“Good for you,” Yuuri chimed with a grin, one that from anyone else would have come across as patronizing and aloof but when delivered by the thin, blond master of all things social made whoever was on the receiving end feel like a prince in their own right.

 

Viktor knew he must have developed the same skills at some point, that he must be just as proficient in that odd, veiled flattery. But nothing he could ever say felt half as effortless as Yurio made this look. 

 

Maybe he was only beginning to notice because, for once, he was emotionally invested.

 

Otabek sent a puck flying across the board that knocked all of Yurio’s out while sending his own up into the tens.  When Yurio shot him a little, half-hearted glare, he put on his signature little coy expression of mock surprise, hidden behind one gloved hand.

 

It wasn’t the worst introduction they could have made, but they left Viktor wondering how these two had led him on hundreds of intricate and masterful cons over the past ten years, how these chuckleheads were literally the two smartest people he knew.

 

He let them entertain Yuuri for a while though, because they really did seem to entertain him, while he slipped down to reserve a quiet and secluded table for dinner that evening.

 

A table for two.  Just Viktor and Yuuri.  Once the sun had gone down behind the horizon, and the sea was a vast expanse of silent abyss, they sat together among the quiet chatter of the dining room, their table a world all their own.  A reliable rotation of jazz standards was piped in through the speakers, the kind of low-fidelity recording that comes with its own record scratches for color.

 

It was a decidedly romantic atmosphere.  Viktor hoped it wasn’t too heavy handed.

 

Yuuri seemed happy.  Well, he seemed overwhelmed more than anything, like at any moment he could start talking if only he had any clue how to respond to this whole situation, being here on a boat with a stranger he’d hit with his car.  He opened his mouth a few times as if he had something to say, but only smiled and looked around sheepishly, deciding the better of it.

 

It went on like this for a long time before Viktor finally decided to put a stop to it.

 

“What was your childhood like?” he asked.  He sincerely wanted to know, wanted to learn what sort of upbringing yields awkward, gifted billionaires like this one.

 

“I made cameras out of watermelons,” Yuuri joked, his tone surprising sardonic for how happy he looked.

 

“Lonely?” Viktor posited.

 

“When I was five, I got really bad rashes and allergies and hay fever,” Yuuri explained, bridging a deck of cards on the table in front of him.  “So my mom took me to the doctor, and he did that test where they use needles to prick a grid on your back with different toxins in them, you know, to see what you’re allergic to.”  He spread the cards out absent-mindedly. “Next day I come in, the doctor lifts up my shirt, and my back is a patch of oily, moldy, blackish-green double-puff marshmallows. I was allergic to  _ everything _ .”  He shuffled the cards again.  “So they sealed the house with plastic and a special ventilation system,” he explained, “and I spent the rest of my childhood and adolescence indoors.  Alone. Lonely.” 

 

He didn’t say any of this with any amount of remorse, although it all rang as very tragic to Viktor, who could not stop himself from staring in disbelief.

 

“Wow,” he said.  

 

“It wasn’t until I was nineteen they discovered what I was actually allergic to was the aluminum alloy the hypodermic needles were made out of,” Yuuri explained.  “Then I was going to leave, but my mom got sick. So I stayed. She stayed sick a really long time.”

 

Viktor nodded.  “Do you feel cheated?” he asked, watching Yuuri’s hands as he fanned out the cards once more.

 

“The trick to not feeling cheated is learning how to cheat,” Yuuri answered, cutting the deck into four piles.  “So I decided this wasn’t a story about a miserable boy trapped in a house that smelled like medical supplies, wasting his life on a dying person he loved because she bore him but hated because she represented everything that was keeping him from leaving.  No,” he said, producing four faces from the tops of the piles, “this was a story about a boy who could find infinite beauty in anything. Any little thing.” 

 

He fanned the cards yet again and tucked the aces into the spread at random intervals.  “I told myself that until it became true. Now,” he continued with the air of a storyteller, straightening the deck and turning out the top four cards to reveal the aces once again, “did doing this help me escape a wasted life, or did it blind me so I wouldn’t want to escape it?  I don’t know. Either way, I was the one telling my own story, so no, I don’t feel cheated at all.”

 

“Can you show me some of those dance moves you picked up in all those years of hobby-acquiring?” Viktor asked, offering up a smile.  

 

Yuuri smiled back in response.  “You know, I went through a bit of a phase where I was mildly obsessed with the bolero.”

 

“I think I can do something about that, let me talk to the band,” Viktor said with a wink, and he wandered off to do what he hoped would be some well-worth-it paying-off.


	7. We've Gone Straight

Yuuri wandered out to the bow of the ship, lit with romantic cafe lights, and watched Viktor walk away until he was out of sight.

 

It was cold, and Yuuri had never been out on the ocean like this, no land in sight in either direction.  All of a sudden, he felt very, very small. He had the feeling he was being watched, and that feeling was justified.

 

Yuuri was being watched by hazel-green eyes that glowed from their hiding place behind an unused bar.  

 

_ “Bon soir, mon cher,” _ came the deep rumble of a man’s voice from the shadows.  

 

_ “Bon soir, monsieur,” _ Yuuri replied apprehensively.  

 

“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” the man purred in French, slinking out of the shadows towards him.  The hazel eyes belonged to a handsome man in his mid-forties, fit and trim with beautiful, blond curls.  He took a step closer.

 

“Yes you did,” Yuuri said.  “Why else were you hiding like that?”

 

“Apologies, but the deck was dark, and I had to approach,” the man said with a sly sort of smile.  “It’s a long time since I last encountered the brothers Plisetsky,” he continued in English, inching closer.

 

“Are you in antiques?” Yuuri asked, trying to keep his voice from wavering.

 

“Antique?” The blond man laughed.  “I wonder,  _ mon cher _ , if you know the true nature of the men you travel with.”

 

He winked, waggling his hips in Yuuri’s direction, before retreating back in the direction he came.  “A little fear might do you well,” he added.  _ “Au revoir, mon cher,” _

 

Before Yuuri had the chance to call after him, Viktor came trotting back, a huge smile plastered across his face.

 

“It isn’t a Spanish band, but they’ll do their best,” he promised, stopping on his heel and holding out a single rose.  He raised his eyebrows--a silent inquiry that was no more imposing than anything else Viktor had done so far. In fact, Yuuri was worried perhaps  _ he _ was being too forward in inviting himself along on this journey, now that he knew the complicated state of things.

 

But Viktor swallowed, the bob of his beautiful throat vulnerable and sexy and everything Yuuri didn’t have until now.  He was stunning--a perfect porcelain doll of a man with the slightest hint of stubble and eyes clearer than the ocean.  

 

Yuuri took the rose between his teeth, drawing a half crescent into the deck with his left foot, letting Viktor step into his space for this one dance beneath the light of the full moon.

 

A duetto, for once in Yuuri’s life.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Viktor awoke to the blare of the ship’s foghorn.  He was alone--he remembered vaguely that he had, in fact, gone to bed alone.  But still, Yuuri lingered everywhere he looked. 

 

He could even  _ smell _ Yuuri in his clothes and hair; the strange mark was as inescapable as Viktor’s nusiance of a brother.

 

A single rose fell from his coat pocket as he went to get dressed.  He could still see and feel the indentations where Yuuri had held the stem in his teeth as they twirled tortuously slowly around one another.  

 

The sky was clear as ever as Viktor stepped out into the morning air.  He’d planned on meandering the deck until Yuuri was up. But it wasn’t long at all until he stumbled upon his guest, already awake and put together, giving Otabek a demonstration in pinhole camera-making.

 

“Let’s get breakfast,” he mumbled when Yuuri looked up.  “I need a coffee and a mimosa.”

 

Otabek stood, signaling for Viktor and Yuuri to follow him into the galley.

 

Never a good sign.

 

Yurio was already seated at the table, his glass nearly empty, his face grim but unworried.

 

Otabek sat on his right and downed the last sip.

 

On his left, Christophe Giacommetti was enjoying a beautifully-fanned arrangement of crepes.

 

“The ship’s too small for us to be dancing around each other,” Yurio explained, gesturing for Viktor and Yuuri to sit.  “We might as well have this out now.”

 

Viktor looked nervously at Yuuri, who had clenched considerably at his side.  Cautiously, he beckoned the mark forward with a gentle hand in the small of his back.  

 

“Yuuri, do you know our friend?” Yurio asked, almost uncaringly.

 

Yuuri sat without bothering to remove his jacket, turning his champagne flute nervously in both hands.  “Only as the creepy Frenchman,” he said, keeping his eyes on the table.

 

“Ah, book-learned,” Christophe chuckled, leaning back in his chair.  “You know your languages, but not your accents,  _ mon cher. _  No.  I am Swiss. _ ” _

 

“Oh,” Yuuri said with a nod.  “Okay.”

 

“Christophe Giacommetti, at your service,” the Swiss man purred, his eyes raking shamelessly down Yuuri’s chest.

 

Viktor felt the heat rise in his face.  “Also know in certain professional circles as The Curator,” he added, shooting a warning glance across the table.

 

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” said Yuuri.  “What do you do?”

 

His interest was so genuine.  Viktor felt his stomach drop. How long could he play a part?

 

“I am a curator,” Christophe said, examining his glass, “presently at the Belgian National  _ Musée  _ in Prague.  And yourself?”

 

“I’m an epileptic photographer,” Yuuri deadpanned, causing Viktor to choke on his drink and Yurio to burst into uproarious laughter.

 

“Very good,” Christophe said, his brow knit with the slightest confusion.  “And you boys? What do you do?”

 

Yurio reached for a drink table behind him and apprehended another mimosa.  He downed half of it before saying, “We run a legitimate antique reselling business.”

 

_ “Ah,” _ Christophe hummed, shooting a knowing glance at Yuuri and adding something Viktor couldn’t understand.  

 

“We’ve gone straight, Chris,” Yurio sighed.  Otabek nodded beside him, meticulously paring an apple with his pocket knife.  

 

Chris’ laugh was incredulous and booming.   _ “Pardon, _ but why would you ascend to the great heights of the brothers Plisetsky just to toss it away, huh?  To do what? To sell terra cotta to blue-haired weekend antiquers?” He scoffed. “I don’t think so.”

 

“We did,” Yurio scoffed back.  “Eat your pancakes.”

 

Christophe made a little noise, maybe in defense, maybe defeat.  For a moment, Viktor thought that was the end of it, but Chris’ gaze drifted towards Yuuri once more.

 

“You know, the  _ monsieur, _ he seems a little confused,” he pointed out.  “Maybe he is unawares?”

 

“Eat your pancakes, Chris,” Viktor pressed.

 

But Chris continued.  “Unawares that the brothers Plisetsky are in fact the two most respected  _ smugglers _ of antiques in the Western world.”

 

Viktor was ready to go.  He threw down his napkin and was a moment from grabbing Yuuri’s wrist and taking him out and as far away as the ship.  But his brother spoke up.

 

_ “Were,” _ Yurio corrected.  “We’ve been on the straight for three years.  So that’s that.”

 

“Oh, oh,” Chris tutted.  “Well, if that is that, then that indeed is that.  If you say so.”

 

“Oh!” Yuuri gasped, staring Chris down. Even Yurio, unshakeable and ten steps ahead, looked up in surprise.  “I get it. Your name’s Melville.”

 

_ “Oui, vrai.” _

 

“Right,” Yuuri said with a final nod.  “I noticed before, but I couldn’t place it.  This ship is called the  _ Fidele _ , which is the name of the ship in Melville’s novel,  _ The Confidence-Man.” _

 

The table was silent.

 

“So... that’s weird,” Yuuri added awkwardly.

 

Viktor shot a cautious glance at Yurio.  Anyone else would have missed the hidden smile--the stupid, smug grin--behind his mask of indifference.  But Viktor saw. And Viktor also saw the twitch of Yurio’s brow that gave away a hint of nerves. A true renaissance man, he loved to add little calling cards, little puzzles and hints, within his plans.  But never had anyone picked up on those allusions before.

 

Not until Yuuri.

 

“I… have never read that,” Yurio lied before gulping down his coffee. 

 

Otabek shrugged, turned, and hurled his apple, perfectly peeled and utterly uneaten, out into the open ocean. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Kudos are appreciated and comments are welcomed!


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